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A Third Face: My Tale of Writing, Fighting and Filmmaking

Page 50

by Samuel Fuller;Christa Lang Fuller;Jerome Henry Rudes


  I've heard critics chide Wiesel for making a career out of the Holocaust. What bullshit! Those are the same insensitive idiots who called me a warmonger. Why are they jealous of a writer using tragic experiences to come to grips with the incomprehensible? Somehow, I'd survived those horrorfilled years of total war. The only way to live with those goddamned memories and keep my sanity was to talk about them, write about them, and, finally, three and a half decades later, make a motion picture about them.

  "The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference," wrote Wiesel. "The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference." 2

  Whether it's Wiesel's writing and lectures, or Claude Lanzmann's eloquent nine-and-a-half-hour documentary, Shoah (1985), or Steven Spielberg's brilliant Schindler's List (1993), the world must be reminded of mankind's insanity. Murder has been going on since man invented weapons. The Nazis thought they could get away with genocide. Stark images of both the oppressed and the oppressors wouldn't let them. Some of the first scenes I'd ever shoot with a movie camera were recorded in 1945 at the liberation of the Falkenau camp. What I saw and recorded was unthinkable yet undeniable. It must never-never!-happen again.

  After Israel, we went to Ireland to finish the picture. A forest is a symbol of life and renewal, but not for me. During our advance through Belgium, I remembered the American GIs we found hanging from the branches, executed summarily by the retreating Germans. It was a terrible sight, with rays of sunlight filtering through the treetops, the bodies of those dogfaces swinging back and forth like macabre pendulums.

  My friend the director John Boorman was of great assistance with his local contacts in Ireland. He invited us over to his farm and named one of his new colts "Big Red One" in our honor. Over a wonderful meal, John told me about the World War II movie he wanted to make, based on his own childhood experiences. For a little boy growing up in London, he explained, it was a time of total upheaval. With the men at war, the women left behind took charge, and discipline was sacrificed to survival. Boorman's memories were the backbone of his wonderful film Hope and Glory (1987).

  Once in California, I discovered the mix-up in the labeling of our film cans. It took weeks of maddening work just to organize all the footage. My first cut produced a six-hour movie. Paring down everything I felt was justified, I delivered a four-and-a-half-hour final cut of The Big Red One to Lorimar.

  They said it was too long to be commercially viable and, over my objections, took over the reediting process. A film editor named David Bretherton cut The Big Red One down to one hour and fifty-three minutes. Bretherton was very competent, but the result was a painful experience. To this day, I'm still mourning all the wonderful scenes that were eliminated, such as the one in which Lee Marvin's sergeant shoots a doublecrossing German countess, played wonderfully by Christa.

  The Big Red One was an official entry at the 1980 Cannes Film Festival. Even in its incomplete length, critics called it one of the best war movies ever made, comparing it to classics like Lewis Milestone's All Quiet on the Western Front (1930). Time, Newsweek, and the Wall Street journal all published wonderful articles. The French writers lauded it. For Chrissakes, one compared my work to that of Apollinaire's poetry!

  Sure, I was thrilled by the almost universal esteem. Yet I can't stop thinking about my four-and-a-half-hour version of the movie, which is somewhere in the vaults at Warner Brothers, who bought the rights several years ago. Someday soon I hope that an intelligent studio executive will authorize the restoration of The Big Red One and let people see the "director's cut." It could be broadcast on television in three segments, those miniseries that have become so common. That format was unheard of when I was fighting for an unabridged version of the picture. Neither the studio nor the television network would regret bringing out the original. I am confident that my full-length version of The Big Red One will hold an audience with its honesty and dry lyricism.

  Another scene cut from The Big Red One was one that involved soldiers on horseback attacking a tank in a Roman amphitheater.

  Hell, I know you've got to accept compromise if you want to make motion pictures. I'd swallowed my share, believe me. Nevertheless, my longtime dream had finally come true. That The Big Red One now existed, even in an abridged version, was miraculous and, without any doubt, my most important achievement. Future audiences and film historians will judge it for themselves. All I ask is that they be given the opportunity to see the movie I lived, wrote, directed, and edited with my heart and soulthe entire four-and-a-half-hour movie-before they render their final judgment.

  Four-Legged

  Time Bomb

  50

  n 1982, Wim Wenders cast me in The State of Things, this time playing the role of a veteran cameraman patterned after my colleague and friend Joe Biroc. The movie was shooting in Portugal. I joined Wim and his crew in Sintra, a jewel of a place with an exquisite macroclimate, ornate villas, and gorgeous gardens. I told Wim that Biroc didn't like to talk much but he loved to improvise. So Wim let me make up lines for my character as we went along, based on each emotional situation. Wenders shot scenes in one take or kept the camera rolling until something interesting happened.

  In one scene, my character is supposed to find out about his wife's death by telephone. I picked up the phone very hesitantly, reacting to the bad news, so wrapped up in the moment that I blurted out my real phone number. Then I hung up and started pacing back and forth. I fully expected Wim to yell "Cut!" However, he kept the camera on me and ended up using my worried walk in the picture.

  It has always been a joy to work with Wim Wenders. In 1983, I'd do a cameo role for him in a pool hall scene in Hammett. And, fittingly enough, my last appearance in front of a movie camera would be for him in The End of Violence (1997). I'm grateful for Wim's friendship and esteem all these years.

  With The Big Red One finally under my belt, I needed to move on. The picture did reasonable business but was by no means a box-office smash. I was obviously burnt up by the way they'd cut it down to half of its intended length, yet there was no way in hell I was going to see myself as a victim. My way of coping with disappointments was to keep banging out stories.

  Jotting down ideas constantly in a little notebook I kept with me day and night, I continued writing new stories, researching current events, reading history books, coming up with ideas almost every day. At the end of the seventies, I had over one hundred titles registered with the Writer's Guild, some with entire scripts already written, some based on stories or treatments, and some just titles for future development.'

  Unexpectedly, high-paying offers started to come my way again. The capriciousness of the movie business made me laugh. One day, you couldn't get Gone with the Wind made. The next, you had producers vying for your attention, waving money at you like a checkered flag at the finishing line of Daytona Speedway.

  First, producers Dan Blatt and Michael Singer brought me Lets Get Harry, a one-page treatment for an adventure movie about the kidnapping of an American businessman that's supposed to take place in Japan. They offered me two hundred grand to write a script and four hundred grand to direct it. I hadn't seen that kind of dough in a while. With Samantha now five, I knew I needed to sock away some wherewithal for her future. I accepted the project, banging out a thriller about some American ex-GIs who rescue their kidnapped buddy from a gang of Japanese fanatics. The idea of going back to Japan with my family to direct the film was exciting, because I'd had such a great experience shooting House of Bamboo over there in 1955. Besides, I yearned for an opportunity to revisit a culture that had always intrigued me. The country must have changed so drastically since then. Among the bedtime tales I'd been reading Samantha were those of Lafcadio Hearn.' Thanks to him, Japanese folklore had become accessible in the West.

  Out of the blue, producer Jon Davison telephoned Christa, saying he was a big Fuller fan. He'd just had a big
hit with Airplane! (1980). Davison wanted me to write and direct a movie before the impending writers' strike. I was flying home that day from Buenos Aires after the Argentinian premiere of The Big Red One. Christa explained to them that I'd made a commitment to do Let's Get Harry in Japan. Davison wouldn't take no for an answer, insisting on a meeting with me as soon as I'd landed. That same afternoon, with the rain falling like cats and dogs, Davison showed up at the Shack with one of Paramount's top executives, Don Simpson. Simpson would later go on to produce blockbusters like Flashdance (1983), Beverly Hills Cop (1984), and Top Gun (1986), then burning out at age fifty-two, dying of a supposed overdose in 1996.

  To me, Simpson looked more like a hippie than a studio exec, or maybe a matador, a real Don Juan in tight pants. Davison had a sweet, cherubic face and a broad knowledge of movies. As soon as we'd settled down in our living room, they announced they had a project for me called White Dog. At the very mention of the title, my eyes started twinkling. Hell, I knew the Romain Gary tale about goddamned dogs being trained to attack black people. Life magazine had done a famous cover with a snarling white dog when the story was published. The yarn had the makings of a helluva movie. Paramount had bought the rights and already sunk a million bucks into the project, first turning to Roman Polanski, then Arthur Penn. Still there wasn't a script that the studio was willing to green-light.

  "Mr. Fuller, we want you to write and direct White Dog," said Simpson.

  I explained that, first, I had to direct Let's Get Harry in Japan. They asked me to push that movie back and do White Dog first. They kept talking to me like I was an exotic bird they wanted to put in a cage. A cage! Yeah, suddenly I saw a big circus cage with an animal trainer inside-a black animal trainer-trying to deprogram a racist canine bent on tearing the trainer to pieces.

  Despite my jet lag from the flight from Argentina, I got very excited, jumping up and acting out scenes that I was already dreaming up. Davison was amused. Simpson was a little startled by my carryings-on. As I talked about characters and scenes, I grabbed Simpson's wrist and almost twisted his arm out of the socket. Every time I became a little too aggressive, Christa broke in, sending me over to the bar for more drinks or sweettalking them. She was afraid I was going to grab the studio executive by the balls to punctuate one of my ideas!

  We made a handshake deal. I'd postpone Lets Get Harry and write a script for White Dog that they'd approve. Time was short. We had about six weeks before the threatened writers' strike would shut down all production.

  I asked the producers of Lets Get Harry to push back their start date. They said they couldn't, so I told them they'd have to find another director. Let's Get Harry ended up being made five years later in Mexico with my original script totally rewritten, transferring the action to South America and butchering the yarn with an unbelievable plot about an American engineer and ambassador kidnapped by drug dealers. The only thing tolerable about the movie was Robert Duvall's performance. The director, Stuart Rosenberg, wisely had his name removed from the credits. I was never given the choice. Mine remains for "story," even though they never asked my permission, nor told me what they were up to. This was a violation of Writers' Guild rules, and the guild eventually upheld my formal complaint.

  All my attention now was focused on White Dog. Jon Davison proved to be a dream producer, a guy who sincerely loved films and devoted enough resources to a project to get it right. Jon not only respected my work but gave me complete support on White Dog. His first decision was to allow me to bring in my young friend Curtis Hanson as co-screenwriter to help pull the script together fast. Curtis and I went to work, talking out each scene excitedly, then banging out pages of action and dialogue, hardly stopping to sleep. We had ten days to deliver a finished script. Curtis is even-tempered, easy to talk to, perceptive. Despite, or maybe because of, the thirty-five-year difference in our ages, Curtis and I had a productive, effervescent collaboration. Christa left us to our mad rhythm, cooking steaks and broccoli for us in the middle of the night when we were hungry.

  First, we had to get a handle on the yarn of a normal-looking dog who'd been conditioned by sick people to be a racist monster. Our story began with Julie, a young actress who adopts a big white German shepherd that she has accidentally hit with her car. The dog recovers and saves her from an intruder in her apartment. Julie discovers that her new pet is violently aggressive, especially toward black people. She takes the dog to an animaltraining center, where she meets Keys, an anthropologist who accepts the animal as a scientific challenge. He's tried to cure "white dogs" before, but he's always failed. How can Keys reverse what someone has done to this animal? How can he get inside a racist dog's brain without using a knife? He cages the dog and starts his experimental regime, but the animal manages to escape. The white dog spots a well-dressed black man and chases him down the street and into a church, knocking him down between the pews and killing him.

  On the set of White Dog with Paul Winfield. Paul is an imposing actor whod never fallen into the black exploitation quagmire. He'd received an Oscar nomination for his portrayal of a dignified sharecropper in Sounder (1972).

  In that disturbing church scene, I wanted to pan the camera away from the bloody victim and up to the stained-glass window of St. Francis of Assisi, the only witness to the savagery below. Curtis thought it was too much of a cliche to have the black man attacked by the dog in a church with the image of St. Francis above. I explained to my young partner that, cliche or not, it would underscore the spiritual as well as the physical violation in the sequence. The attack happens in a very sacred place, a place of peace and regeneration. Having the image of St. Francis in the background would be a reminder of our two intertwining themes, that of tolerance and torment. I won Curtis over. Later, he told me the scene really worked in the completed film.3

  The church killing sets up the big confrontation between Keys and Julie about the fate of her monstrous pet:

  KEYS

  ... There's still a chance to cure him!

  JULIE

  Cure him? He just killed a man! There is no way you can cure that dog! I want you to shoot him now before he kills more blacks!

  KEYS

  So you finally joined the club! A club of horrified people who raise holy hell about that disease, that racist hate! But do absolutely nothing to stamp it out! That dog is the only weapon we have to at least remove a part of it! If I cure him!

  JULIE

  If? "If" is not going to stop him from killing people!

  KEYS

  Yes, Julie, I can't guarantee the result. But if I fail, I'll get another white dog. And another! Or another! Or another! And another! And keep on working until I lick it! Because that's the only way to stop sick people from breeding sick dogs! And goddamnit, I can't experiment on a dead dog!

  After we'd polished the script for White Dog, honing it down to under a hundred pages, with a ballsy finish, we delivered it to Paramount on schedule. Don Simpson and Jon Davison both loved it. They gave us a green light to get into production immediately. I started casting. Jodie Foster was everyone's first choice as Julie. Jodie really wanted to do the picture but unfortunately wouldn't be free in time. Other prominent young actresses tested. The one I liked best was Kristy McNichol, a nineteenyear-old who'd been doing television since the age of twelve. Kristy was unpretentious and had a helluva lot of charm. Her enthusiasm, her authenticity, her easygoing smile won me over.

  Paul Winfield, an accomplished actor, got the role of Keys. Paul was a real trooper. The only problem was that he kept pestering me to give him one of my cigars. It was my custom to never offer a cigar to anybody on a shoot, because, before you knew it, everybody on the crew wanted one. Paul was such a good guy, though, I made an exception and gave him one of my Camacho No. is. As Carruthers, the head of the animal-training center, the old pro Burl Ives did a solid job. A cigar smoker himself, Burl brought along his own smokes to the set.

  We hired an experienced cameraman, Bruce Surtees, who
worked with the newly devised Steadicam. Our shoot went smoothly despite all the hazards of working with the four different dogs that were needed to portray our lead canine. The dog trainer, Karl Miller, was a master with animals large and small. Our main location was called Wildlife Station, located on the outskirts of Los Angeles and run by Martine, a terrific lady and committed animal lover. She'd rescued every kind of animal you could imagine and boarded them all at her place. Martine gave Paramount permission to let our crew build a huge animal cage on her property. The cage alone was supposed to have cost 750,000 bucks. Martine got to keep it after the shoot as part of our arrangement.

  A special scene for me to direct was the one with the kind-looking old bigot who shows up along with his two granddaughters to reclaim his white dog. The old guy looks like such a sweet gentleman, but he's actually the racist sonofabitch who's turned the dog into a freak. The old guy, unaware that Julie knows about his treatment of the white dog, offers her a box of chocolates, which she throws back in his face. One of the little girls in the scene was our own Samantha, making her debut as an actress. I made sure Samantha got a line to say on camera with her lovable baby lisp: "Where is my dog?" Christa played a small role in the picture, too, as the veterinarian's nurse. With my two favorite women on set, an $8 million budget, and a strong cast and crew, everything seemed to be looking rosy.

  With Kristy McNichol in the animal cage on White Dog

  Samantha Fuller, as the old racists granddaughter

  Then something strange and ugly happened. An NAACP spokesperson named Willis Edwards showed up on our set one day. He'd cleared his visit with the studio to see if our film was "distorting the image of black people." I was flabbergasted. Why hadn't an organization as prestigious as the NAACP done their homework and checked out my record before sending a man to spy on my work? If they had, they would've found out that I was one of the first directors in Hollywood to use actors of color in intelligent, complex roles: the black medic in The Steel Helmet; Nat King Cole's sensitive soldier, in China Gate; Harry Rhodes's twisted college dropout, in Shock Corridor; James Shigeta's detective who gets the gal, in The Crimson Kimono. Our world was multiracial. I'd been depicting it that way since my first picture. And why the hell hadn't they checked out my military record? For Chrissakes, I'd put my life on the line to stand up for democracy, fighting fascism because it was antagonistic to the Jeffersonian principle that all men are created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, among these life, liberty, and the goddamned pursuit of happiness!

 

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